omething to tell you, something that I want someone else beside me to
know. It's going to be an ugly storm and the _Kittlewake_ is no
trans-Atlantic liner. We may all get back to shore. We may not. If one
of you do and I don't, I want you to tell this. It--it will sort of
justify my apparent rashness in dragging you off on this wild trip."

He moved his chair close to the stationary seat of the girl and,
gripping one of the arms of the seat, motioned Joe to move up beside
them. It was only thus that he might be heard unless he were to shout at
the top of his voice.

"You know," he said, a strange smile playing over his thin lips, "you
folks probably have thought it strange that I should go rushing off on a
trip like this without any positive knowledge that those two boys had
started for that mysterious island shown on the map and spoken of in the
writing on the back of the map, but you see I had more information than
you thought. This I know for an almost positive fact," he leaned forward
impressively: "The mysterious island of the chart does not exist."

"Oh!" the girl started back.

"It's a fact," said Curlie, "and I'll give you my proof."

He paused for a second. The girl leaned forward eagerly. Joe was all
attention.

"When I went into that big library," he continued, "I was determined to
find all the truth regarding that map that was to be had there. While
you were looking at those ancient maps," he turned to Gladys, "I went
into a back room and there the lady in charge gave me some bound
reproductions of ancient maps to look at and some things to read, among
them a volume of the 'Scottish Geographic Magazine.' I read them through
carefully and--"

Suddenly he started violently, then clasped the receivers close to his
ears.

"Just a moment. Getting something," he muttered.

A second later he seized a pencil and marked down upon a pad a series of
dots and dashes.

Then, wheeling about, he put his fingers on a key to flash back an
answer.

"It's the boys," he shouted. "Got their location. Joe, decode what I
wrote there, then go ask the skipper how much we're off it."

He turned once more to click off his message, a repetition of the first
one; then he shouted a second message into his transmitter.

Joe Marion studied the pad for a moment, then rushed out of the cabin.

All alert, Curlie sat listening for any further message which might
reach him. Presently Joe returned. There was a puzzled look upon